Mr Monk and the Crazy Idea
by DezriktheBlue
Summary: A Monk mystery about a kid who dies of rabies and Randy has the only real theory, and it is completely stupid.
1. Chapter 1

Hello! This Wavesparkle7217 and DezrikTheBlue! We don't own Monk or the characters, but we do own the plot. Please don't take it. Enjoy! Oh, yeah, since we are co-writing this piece, Wavesparkle will write the odd-numbered chapters, and DezrikTheBlue will write the even-numbered ones.

Adrian Monk was cutting the crust off of the fourth sandwich he made in the past hour. It was smooth peanut butter and seedless grape jelly on white bread cut with a ruler to exactly six by six inches. He would have preferred ten by ten, but bread didn't come in that size. The geometry compass he was using to cut the bread to ninety degree angles had been calibrated by Monk's brother, checked by Monk himself, and never left its locked case except to make a sandwich.

The phone rang. Natalie Teager, Mr. Monk's assistant and friend, sat up sharply from her relaxed position in her chair, and answered it.

"Hello, Mr. Monk's phone, Natalie speaking," she told the caller. "Oh, hi, Captain."

She meant San Fransisco Police Department Captain Leland Stottlemeyer, of the Robbery and Homicide Division.

"_It's a case,_" she mouthed at Mr. Monk, who had paused in his precision food preparation to listen to her conversation.

"Really?" Natalie asked, clearly surprised. "He died of of rabies? That doesn't sound like a murder." She paused to listen to the other side of the conversation. "Oh my God! It was a _human_ bite? That's disgusting! We'll be right there."

Natalie hung up the phone, automatically wiped it down with disinfectant, and gestured Monk to the car. They drove to the police station as fast as law allowed, carefully following every tiny, virtually unknown traffic law at Monk's direction.

Monk and Natalie entered the bustling police station and cast a practiced eye over the abundance of people for the captain. Monk spotted him first. The captain was a medium man of unremarkable looks, with a bristly, graying, brown mustache.

"Ah, good. You're here. Come in my office," Stottlemeyer directed.

The details of the bizarre case were in there, as well as blessed relief for his aching head. Natalie and Stottlemeyer waited as Monk straitened the chairs and desk to his precise specifications.

Natalie crossed her arms as she heard the captain out. Both she and the detective ignored Monk's fidgeting as a habitual trait. The case _was _bizarre and there were absolutely no clues. The victim had been a street urchin of about twelve years of age. He had suffered a human bite and died of rabies in the hospital, after being found by a dog walker at three in the morning. The fact that it was a human bite and that the street kid had just stolen a diamond that was not on him led the police to believe it was a murder.

"That's disgusting," Natalie concluded as Stottlemeyer finished.

"That it is," Stottlemeyer agreed in a long-suffering tone.

"What's the theory?" Monk asked, nudging one of the pens in the coffee cup into line with the others.

"There isn't one, Monk," Stottlemeyer grouched.

"Yes there is," a voice said. It was Lieutenant Randy Disher, Stottlemeyer's second in command. He was standing in the doorway with two coffee cups in his hands. Disher quailed at the scathing look his superior was giving him.

"Randy," Stottlemeyer began through gritted teeth, "Thinks a crazy man broke out of the hospital and bit the kid, then went back to the hospital."

"Well," Randy corrected. "Not exactly. I think that a crazy man who loved cats tunneled out of the insane asylum at the hospital, using only spoons, bit the kid, then injected him with the rabies virus from the stores at the university, stole the diamond, then tunneled back in." He blanched a little at the disbelief in all three faces directed at him. "Well, it could have happened."

"No," the Captain said. "It couldn't have. It's crazy." Then Stottlemeyer beckoned Randy forward and took his coffee. "Thanks, though, for the coffee."

Randy smiled at Natalie, offering the second cup of coffee.

"No thanks," she told the eager-to-please lieutenant, pushing it back at him with a small smile. She actually thought it was kind of cute the way Disher was always hitting on her. He smiled back.

"Well, I guess I'll just leave the _smart _people to work on this case," Disher said, making to close the door and leave.

"Randy," Stottlemeyer stopped his friend, hands spread on the desk in front of him for support, "You're not dumb. Come back."

"Yeah," Monk chimed in, "You made it to lieutenant, you can't be stupid." Disher looked a little sheepish, but pleased, at this unexpected source of praise.

"Yeah, Randy," Natalie put in, "You've helped solve a lot of hard cases."

"You're a good cop, Randy," Stottlemeyer told the younger man, sitting down in his padded, swiveling chair.

Randy looked a little skeptical. "You know, my birthday isn't until next month." His friends shook their heads and grinned at him.

"It doesn't have to be your birthday to tell the truth," Monk told Randy. "You are a good cop. You just need a new theory."

Randy smiled broadly at all the praise, and took an embarrassed drink of his coffee. It was then that one of the uniforms requested Disher's attention, and they left the office.

"At least," the captain began, "This theory complies with the laws of physics." Monk and Natalie smiled.

Then the three began to compare ideas on where to find leads. They concluded that Monk should look at the body and the "crime scene."


	2. Chapter 2

Upon the arrival of the police at the crime scene, Monk and his compatriots were assaulted with questions and theories, all of which about as useless as Randy's. Monk stepped out of the police car, took one look at the corpse, and began pleading to Natalie for a wipe like a baby pleading for food, shelter, and a college education. It was all Natalie could do to oblige.

"May I see the case file please?" asked the no longer hyperventilating detective.

Randy handed him the case file, and in a barely discernible whisper, explained the high points of his bizarre theory.

"Monk, we have no leads, we have no clues, we have no suspects, the case file is just the victim's information," explained Stottlemeyer.

Monk puzzled over the information for several seconds.

"Why don't you just take a DNA sample of the sp-, sp-, stuff that is produced by your mouth."

"You mean spit?" asked Natalie.

"Euuuu, she said the 's' word!" the compulsive detective began screaming.

"Calm down Monk!" Stottlemeyer demanded, then turned to Natalie. "Don't say, sp-, the 's' word, okay."

It took Monk several seconds of strange angling, sniffing, stomping, and a half package of wipes before he struck a clue.

"It says here that the victim was found with no DNA on his body, even in the wound. The murderer must have been..."

"Like you?" Natalie inquired.

"To put it bluntly," Monk nodded. "Anyway, the wound was small, so someone with a small mouth must have inflicted the wound. Their are no major veins in the specific area of the wound, however, and there are no other wounds or injection marks, so the biter must have had the disease them self. The victim was tall though, nearly five-six. A dog or animal with that small of a mouth would have to have come from above. No animal could have survived that fall."

"So your saying it's either a flying mammal or a weird midget man, or there was a trampoline and a jumping animal,"concluded Stottlemeyer.

"Some weird midget-mouthed man in an asylum," concluded Randy.

Monk took a short interlude to touch a nearby pole before beginning again on a long begging for a wipe.


	3. Chapter 3

(Later that night...)

Natalie arose, groggily, to the loud and annoying ring of her cell phone. She answered it with a trace of civility, all she could muster at one thirty on a Saturday morning.

"Hello?"

"Natalie," came Lieutenant Disher's voice, stark, scared, and bare of the usual callus confidence, over the phone. "Please, you have to come."

Now Natalie was awake. "What happened? Are you okay, Randy?" she asked.

"Yeah, barely." There was a slight tremor in the usually slightly overconfident man's voice. "Someone burned down my apartment."

"Are you sure it wasn't an accident?" Natalie asked.

"Accidents don't come with flaming crosses staked to the door," Randy trembled. "This was attempted murder."

"Flaming cross?" Natalie's mind took a moment to process this. "That sounds like the KKK. Why would they want to hurt you?"

"Natalie," came the now slightly exasperated voice of Randall Disher, "They are obviously scared of me now that I know their Grand Wizard is in the hospital killing people for stolen diamonds. It's all in the case!"

"Okay, Randy. We'll be right there. Have you called Mr. Monk?" Natalie had crawled out of bed and was pulling on a pair of sweatpants to go with her t-shirt. She was, of course, humoring Disher. The whole thing was so ridiculous it couldn't be real.

After picking up Monk, Natalie drove to Disher's apartment. They had to wait for the captain to wave them through the police and fire department trucks blocking the flaming building from the outskirts of the parking lot.

"It's definitely Klan work," Stottlemeyer told them, his voice a study in patient exasperation. "This is the weirdest thing that has happened in a long time. I hope you have one iota more sense than Randy at the moment. Not that I blame him, poor kid."

"No," agreed Natalie, as she and the captain watched Monk. They looked at each other and smiled. Monk had found something.

Monk was gazing at a footprint on the lawn through his outstretched fingers, frowning. He reached into the pocket inside his brown suit coat and pulled out a ball-point pen. He squatted above the clue footprint and pulled up a hair.

"What is it, Mr. Monk?" Natalie ventured, drawing herself and the captain into the picture.

"It's a hair," Monk told her. "From a long-haired cat, maybe a Persian. Probably a black one, though it could be a tortoiseshell."

A shaken Randy stepped forward. Devoid of his usual gray suit and tie, he looked strangely like a lost puppy. He held out an open evidence bag for the cat hair to be deposited into.

Monk squatted back down by the foot print, poking at it with his pen again. He was frowning at it, tracing the tread lines with his pen. He looked up at his friends, who were ardently watching his work.

"This belongs to the arsonist," Monk stated confidently.

"How do you know?" Stottlemeyer inquired, with curious aggravation.

"There's sand in the treads. The ground around here is all mud. He pointed to Disher's slippers. "See? It's all that brown, silty mud. No sand."

"That's right," Disher supplied, his chest sticking out a bit as he swayed, his hands in his pockets. "It flooded about a month ago, left behind a whole bunch of silt. There were some geologists here looking at it a while ago."

"Why are we working on this?" Natalie asked suddenly. "This isn't a homicide; it's arson."

"Oh yes it is a homicide," Stottlemeyer sighed. "A little boy got shot during the fire. There isn't much left of him. He's pretty charred." The captain gestured to the covered gurney waiting by the ambulance.


	4. Chapter 4

It was a rainy Thursday afternoon in the office of psychiatrist Dr. Kroger. Adrian Monk sat facing the understanding shrink, and burning inside because of the uneven pillows on the beige sofa to his left.

"That's puzzling Adrian," said Dr. Kroger. "Your friends house down was burned down by the KKK? That seems uncommon in our area, doesn't it?"

"It wasn't the KKK," Monk concluded. "And your couch cushions are-." His speech was interrupted by an involuntary twitch of his neck.

"Do you want to fix them?" Dr. Kroger asked and motioned to the cushions.

Monk gave another spasm and shook his head, before reaching over and making the couch symmetrical.

"Why don't you think it was the KKK?" DR. Kroger reverted back to the original topic.

"In our area, it seems highly unlikely, and it was raining heavily. Why start a fire in a rainstorm? Also, there was only one set of footprints leading to and from the building, and in flat, trackless sandals, like athletes use for throwing those metal balls."

"Shot put?" asked Dr. Kroger.

"Exactly," answered the OCD man that was now fidgeting at a slightly off tinker coffee cup of a passerby.

Meanwhile, the gray mustached police captain and his sidekick stood over a body.

"Name, David Bandell, age, 35, height, 6' 4", profession, athlete, shot put mainly," the Lieutenant described to Stottlemeyer.

"Same bite wound as the kid," Stottlemeyer muttered.

Suddenly, Randy's eyes popped.

"The loony guy who likes cats, he brought his cat in and threw it as the murder weapon. That's why there was hair in the footprints. I'm telling you, we have to find the loony cat guy!"

"Randy, this man was bitten to death. Either there is a killer animal stalking the streets, or a cat-loving rabid man who digs out of his asylum with spoons to kill the innocent. Which seems more likely?" Stottlemeyer stopped the hyperactive lieutenant before he could answer. "If their is anyone who can solve this, it's Monk or the animal catchers."

The phone rang, and was picked up by Dr. Kroger.

"Hello, Dr. Kroger psychiatrist, may I help you?" The shrinks face fell. "thank you," he said, before hanging up.

"What is it?" Monk asked.

"The captain needs you right away," Dr. Kroger answered. "Two more bites. A professional shot-putter," he stuttered.

"Whose the second?" Monk asked.

"Natalie Teeger."


	5. Chapter 5

Natalie was unconscious when Monk arrived, driven by Dr. Kroger. Randy was sitting anxiously by her bed and he leaped to his feet when Monk came bursting in the room.

"Is she okay?" Monk asked, his voice filled with fear.

"She hit her head running from whatever bit her. We won't know what happened until she wakes up. Even then, she may not remember. Head wounds like this can cause amnesia."

Monk stood beside the bed and looked down at Natalie. "I wish I could see the wound," he mused.

"Impossible," the nurse who had just entered the room informed Monk. "The conditions around here are as septic as we can make them, it isn't that. But the pressure from the bandages helps stop the bleeding."

The nurse was an older woman, with graying brown hair and dark black eyes. She wore a very intense expression.

"You had all better clear out," the nurse warned, and pointing at Randy she added, "And don't try to pull rank on me, young man. I have the final say in this room."

Randy, chastised, moved to leave. Monk followed after a slight hesitation. Together, they stood outside the room while Randy called the captain. Monk heard only Randy's side, of course, so he was busy filing the pauses.

"Yes, Sir… she'll be fine… Yes, she'll be out for a while… well Monk will have to do without a nurse, I guess… no… of course I'd do you a favor Sir, anything… You want me to be Monk's nurse!?... No of course not, sir. Yeah, sure." Then Disher hung up and looked Monk strait in the eye.

Monk anticipated his statement. "The captain wants you to be my nurse? You aren't even trained!"

"Captain Stottlemeyer says a lot of problems get solved this way. I get a bodyguard and a place to stay; you get a nurse and a first-hand check-in when things go wrong." Randy, however, looked about as excited as Monk about this arrangement.

"Ah, yes, the captain in his infinite wisdom," Monk said, trying hard to make a joke.

"What was that? Was that a joke? Don't do that anymore," Randy instructed Monk.

"Isn't getting a sense of humor a step forward? You're supposed to support me!" Monk told Disher, watching the lieutenant's face squint into a mask of frustration. Monk sighed. This was an excellent beginning, and yes, that was sarcasm.

Dr. Kroger met them outside the hospital. "I'll drive you home, Adrian," he offered, but Randy extended a hand and shook his head slowly.

"I'm afraid Monk will be going with me, Doctor," Disher informed the psychologist.

"What? Are you sure he wants to?"

Monk's face clearly betrayed the answer to _that_ question, but Randy told Dr. Kroger about the captain's arrangement, and Dr. Kroger launched into a lecture about how this would be really good for Monk.

Monk sighed and stuck out his hand. Randy handed him a wipe, grinning like an idiot.

"See? I knew what to do. We'll be fine!" Monk figured Randy was being overoptimistic, but he said nothing in reply.


	6. Chapter 6

The first week of the Randy/Monk "relationship" was about as pleasant as a nice, comfortable cactus armchair on a bruised behind. Randy spent about 400 on gas driving monk back and forth to the hospital to visit Natalie (mostly back because Monk never went inside. Can you blame him). The meager paycheck he received, which Monk had cut in half because Randy was only a "substitute nurse," was equally depreciated within the first week on wipes and cleaning fluids. Then when Monk learned that his favorite cleaning agents were made in methane-powered factories, Randy payed the bill for Monk to rid himself of his 100 bottles of cleaning fluids in "sector nine."

Randy quit after the seventh day, leaving Monk under the care of Captain Stottlemeyer, who would've dumped him as well if their hadn't been another strike by the "hopping mammal murderer" as the villain had come to be known.

"He was killed in sector nine?" Monk questioned, half in relief and half as though his one safe garbage area had been shattered along with what world Monk had left.

"Yes. That means you can come with Randy and the other police to the crime scene," said Stottlemeyer, his exhausted figure slammed by a daay with Monk and the hideous glare Randy catapulted his way.

"Why aren't you coming, nurse Stottlemeyer?" Monk asked with a childish glee.

"I am on my vacation time," answered the Captain with a look as cold as an elephant in an air conditioned grass hut somewhere near the home of Santa Claus. "And my name is not 'nurse.' It's 'Captain.'"

The only problem with the plan was that "sector nine" didn't exist. It was a ploy by the garbage men to stop Monk from complaining. It hadn't worked. So it was fortunate that they were stopped by a police blockade near an asylum about twelve miles away from the dump.

"What happened here?" interrogated Stottlemeyer.

"A breakout." answered the cop on duty. "And another weird murder..."


End file.
